


Like the River

by Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)



Series: Other Constants [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Relationship(s), Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 21:23:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7454422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/pseuds/Goodluckdetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dragon Spirits don’t trust just anyone.</p><p>McCree never expected for them to ever trust him.</p><p>Or how McCree gained some trust, won a shootout, almost caught the flu, and proceeded to be the most handsome damsel in distress Overwatch has ever seen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like the River

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to Nina for being my Beta, and folks on Tumblr and the McHanzo serve for being the best cheerleaders.
> 
> Might do more in this verse. We'll see.

The first time McCree sees the dragons, he drops his gun right where he’s standing.

It’s not dignified in the slightest, and while it would be worse if the enemy was still on his tail, the fact that D.Va and Genji are there to see the whole thing go down is enough for McCree to chalk it up as a disaster. They’re trying to capture a point–a simple operation really, nothing fancy–and for once, MCree is holding down the place instead of going after Talon, guns blazing. He’s following 76’s orders for once. Partially because it’s nice to stand his ground instead of chasing after people.

Partially because he can’t leave the kid alone. Even if the kid is a nineteen year old who takes to being called kid as well as McCree did at her age.

“Are they done yet?” D.Va says from inside her mech, sounding bored out of her mind. Which McCree can understand, since the rest of the team has been so good at picking Talon off that they haven’t seen a glimpse of an enemy. There’s a shout in the distance, more of a cackle, and D.Va sighs. “Nevermind.”

Lena never was good at stealth missions. It was the reason they never put her in Blackwatch; her taunts could be heard for miles.

“Just be patient,” McCree says, even though he’s rather bored himself. They’re protecting small fry, just an ammunition supply Talon wants.  While  the threat of Widowmaker usually keeps him on his toes, he knows she’s not on this operation since Lena hasn’t been swearing over the com. Genji, Hanzo, and Lúcio seem to have everything covered. It’s almost relaxing.

“Enjoying slacking about–” Lena says, popping into the point for a minute before she’s gone in a flash of light. Probably heard some action to deal with. D.Va lets out another sigh, and McCree stares at her.

“You’re gonna have to speak up, kid. I don’t speak teenager.”

The visor on D.VA’s mech blocks McCree’s view of the teen a bit, but he can see the glare she’s giving him. It’s is a sight.

“Was Tracer always like that? When she was younger?”

“Are you asking me about back in the day?”

“Not if you put it like such a Dad.”

And this is why McCree gets along with D.Va even though she sasses him something fierce, and makes fun of his age. She’s quick on the draw, at least verbally. Smart as a whip, too; the fact she can control that mech of hers proves it. And to that, McCree can relate, even if he isn’t adept at social media or remote controlled robots.

“Yeah. She was. Little less fast and quick, but yeah. Liked to talk everyone’s ear off. Always smiling.” Not that she isn’t always smiling these days, but it’s different, a little more forced, a little more off center. McCree can’t blame her after everything that happened. The last few years have been rough on her.

He doesn’t have long to linger on that thought before Genji is thrown through an alley right by their feet.

“Hello,” he says, and while he’s sounded better, he isn’t sparking or anything. He glances at McCree and tilts his head. “We have company.”

D.Va lets out a cheer while McCree helps Genji to his feet. He’s quick to bounce back, McCree will give him that, and McCree was sure he’d be smiling if it wasn’t for the faceplate.

“Got your ass handed to you, huh Shimada?” The banter comes back easy. Even though they were never in the same unit back when Overwatch proper was running, they’d always been good friends.  Ocassional drinking buddies to assholes who decided to fight the training dummies at three in the morning for shits and giggles.

“Not as bad as that time on Route 66.”

“Harsh.”

McCree takes out his revolver, ready to fire at whatever comes out of the shadows. He’s older now, for sure, but his eyesight isn’t slouching. Five enemies, that’s what he can see. Not perfect, but with everyone they should be more than fine.

That’s his thought before a shout in Japanese echoes across the courtyard, bringing with it two blue dragons made of light.

McCree drops his gun. Right on his foot. The next day, he’ll look down and find the handle left a bruise on his right toe.

That isn’t his thought at the moment. His thought is that these dragons are nothing like Genji’s. They’re blue. They roar. They move like a stream he used to watch as a child, back when it rained so much that the place flooded, and as he watches their tails flutter in the air, he remembers the run off of the same stream, and how he used to stick his fingers in it and trace patterns–

It is only Genji grabbing his arm that makes him realize he’s taken a step forward.

“I wouldn’t get too close, friend,” Genji says. “My brother’s dragons are not kind except to those they trust completely.”

It is in that moment that McCree notices the five dead bodies slumped over in the alley, dead from the dragon’s fangs that ran them through.

“They’d kill me?” McCree would like to think his voice didn’t rise a pitch. He’s wrong. Genji shakes his head.

“No. They only kill intended targets. But they would cause significant pain.” A long pause. “It isn’t pleasant.”

McCree does not want to think about how Genji’s voice drops on that sentence.

“Show off,” D.Va mutters as Hanzo comes into view, bow over his shoulder. He’s quiet–to be fair, he’s always quiet–and when he notices McCree staring, he glares at him.

It is in that moment McCree realizes something important: he will never be able to get close to the dragons. Hell, he should keep as far from them as possible. If for one reason only.

Because Hanzo Shimada hates his guts.

* * *

Okay, hate is a strong word. Hanzo Shimada doesn’t hate his guts. He’s just probably irritated by them. Not that McCree can blame him–they don’t have a lick in common. Where Hanzo is organized, McCree is a living human disaster. Where Hanzo views smoking as a vice, McCree has a stash of cigars unholy to look at. Where Hanzo likes his solitude, McCree likes people. There are plenty of small reasons for Hanzo to dislike him.

That and the first thing McCree said to Hanzo was “so you’re the jackass who tried to kill your own brother.” Which really wasn’t a great opener in retrospect, no matter how hopping angry he was at the time.

Genji had yelled at him for that, which was perhaps the first time Genji had yelled in a long time. It made McCree cool his jets and decide he was being a bit hypocritical in judging a guy for a criminal history and fight the victim had long forgiven him for. But the damage was done.

That didn’t mean McCree wouldn’t try to make nice anyway. They were working on the same team together, since Genji convinced his brother to join this new branch of Overwatch for redemption. Might as well try to be on solid terms. Patch up the ugly hole he’d started with. Get on friendly terms. At least, friendly enough that McCree didn’t fear waking up with his hat full of arrow holes.

“So, dragons,” he says a day after witnessing them in front of his eyes. Hanzo’s on the practice room floor, shooting arrows into targets. All of them hit the bullseye. “That was pretty cool.”

Hanzo doesn’t look at him, but his mouth tilts down into a small frown. Which at this point, might be his default expression.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean any offense,” McCree says, raising his hands up. “It was just a sight. Never seen anything like it before.”

“Did Genji not tell you?” And there was an uncomfortable topic. One that could leave McCree with a very pointy arrow in his very nice ass.

“About the dragons? Yeah, I knew. I just didn’t know yours were different.”

“Well, then thank you. For the compliment.” He shoots another arrow, and McCree watches it sail into the last of the targets. He does have good aim, McCree thinks. Probably as good as his own.

There’s a long moment of silence. McCree wishes he came with more to say. Or his revolver, if only so he could challenge the other man to a shooting contest.  His normal topics of conversation don’t seem right here. So he sticks with the dragons.

“The dragons. Do they have names?”

Now that gets Hanzo’s attention. He actually stares at McCree, clearly caught off guard.

“Excuse me?”

“The dragons. Do they have names? They’re spirits right? So I thought they might have names.” Hanzo is still staring at him. "Is it a secret or something? Or like not a question I’m supposed to ask? Cus I can forget all about it if it is.”

Hanzo is still staring at him, but his eyes have gone thoughtful.

“They do have names. And yes, it is a secret.” He walks forward to grab the arrows from the targets. The silence is less awkward now, enough for McCree to define it as “less than homicidal.” “You’re a decent sharpshooter, correct?”

McCree nods. “Best damn shot in the West. I’d give you the references but I’m afraid they’re six feet under. Bit hard to interview.”

McCree, with his damn good eyesight, doesn’t miss how Hanzo smirks at that.

“Well,” Hanzo says, pulling out the last of the arrows. “If you ever wish to test any of those skills against someone more capable, feel free to join me.”

“Depends. Are you a betting man?”

Hanzo turns around to look at him at that. Puts the arrows back in his quiver. Sizes up McCree like a target on his line up.

“Where I’m from, we only call such challenges a bet if both sides have a chance of winning.”

And with that, bi-weekly target practice begins.

* * *

The first practice they ever have starts one hour after dawn.

This is because they spent the first hour bickering about each other’s choices in drinks.

McCree can take a lot of insults in his life, but no man on Earth is allowed to say such horrible things about coffee to his face and expect to get off scot-free.

“This is not swill,” he says, sitting on one of the training room benches. Hanzo is sitting on the other bench, drinking tea. McCree has always hated tea. It reminds him of sick days when he was a kid, being forced to drink the stuff. To be fair, the tea his mother used was subpar black tea, not the fancy green tea Hanzo is packing, but his stance on the drink still stands. “This is pure, rich, American energy.”

“And it’s swill.”

McCree considers calling his drink the same, but he figures doing so would risk an arrow in his ass.

“Not all coffee is swill.”

“The type you are drinking is. I can smell it.” Hanzo’s nose crinkles. To be fair he has a point; Overwatch coffee is indeed, swill. McCree normally likes his black but even he has to add sugar to it to make it tolerable.

“Don’t knock it till you try it.”

To McCree’s surprise, the next practice they have, Hanzo shows up with a cup of coffee on his own. He ends up spitting it out, grumbling about McCree’s lack of taste, but the cowboy has to give credit where credit is due. Their third practice, he comes coffee free, and offers to try some of Hanzo’s tea.

It’s too strong for him in the end, but the expression on Hanzo’s face makes trying it worth it.

Maybe archer boy despised him once. But McCree has a feeling he doesn’t anymore.

* * *

They’re not friends. Not quite. Outside of the practice room, they don’t interact much, simple gestures of hello to be had and nothing more. Just teammates like everyone else. Which is fine with McCree. His luck with friends, besides Genji, has never really worked in his favor anyway.

( _“You’re a good shot, McCree,” Reyes whispers at him years ago, and McCree wishes he forgot  how his heart swelled from the compliment_.)

He takes that attitude about their whole relationship until a month into their challenge practices.

Hanzo is lucky McCree doesn’t bet money on their challenges, because McCree roasts him. By three points. Which in sharpshooter land, is winning by a landslide.

Hanzo takes it as well as is to be expected. The stream of swears that leaves his mouth, mostly in Japanese, sounds creative to say the least. McCree, as much as a shit as ever, just blows away the smoke from his revolver as the archer raves, enjoying the show.

Back when McCree was just starting out, he lived for these moments, moments where he showed he was more than some piece of shit crook Reyes picked up from a dusty hell. Watching the other agents gape at his skills had been a hobby of his. He could remember walking into the training room when anyone else was there just to show off, to make himself feel like he was worth more than a pair of boots on the ground.

That faded over time, as he made friends, as he started to belong. But he still enjoyed beating someone at their own game.

He’s pretty sure he’ll die as he lived: a cocky little shit.

“Rematch,” Hanzo says, walking forward to get the arrows. McCree walks past him, and shakes his head, smile not quite gone from his face.

“Nah, I got it. The injured party deserves time to lick his wounds.” Taking the arrows out of the targets takes more force than it looks and when he hands them back to Hanzo, the archer places them back into his quiver.

“You have never shot a bow, have you?”

“Not got a chance. Why, you offering lessons?” The question comes out more flirty than McCree intended, and he wonders why his voice automatically shifted to that tone. Especially considering how that tone usually got him in trouble.

Thankfully, Hanzo doesn’t notice McCree’s inability to keep it together around someone with a nice ass (and when the fuck had McCree noticed that). “If you bring your own bow, perhaps. But it would not be easy.”

“That’s a strong warning. Worried about me beating you at your own game?”

Hanzo actually laughs at that. It’s short, more of a bark, really, but it suits him. Happiness suits him.

McCree decides, much like he did with Genji and other agents years ago, that he should work to see that emotion on Hanzo’s face more often.

* * *

 

Befriending Hanzo is not as hard as it looks. In fact, it’s almost easy. Easier than he would have thought at any rate.

It takes time, time to make Hanzo hang out with him outside of the training room. Time being friendly, time making offers, time winning archery competitions, time trying tea and sharing coffee. Asking about Hanzo’s past, his tattoos, where he used to hang out as a kid. Answering the same about his past (the gang), his tattoos (a sheriff’s star on his leg), where he used to hang out as a kid (by the stream, watching the ripples in the water). Hanzo turns down most of his offers to hang out at first, determined to avoid the rest of the team except in a professional setting.

Penance, that’s what Reinhardt thinks it is, when McCree comes to complain about his lack of progress one night over drinks. They’re six rounds in, and while McCree is absolutely feeling it, Reinhardt looks to be entirely sober.

“Him and his brother,” Reinhardt says when McCree grumbles once more about failing to lure Hanzo out of his room. “That may have something to do with it.”

“Genii? He doesn’t want Hanzo to lock himself up.” Genji was the person who brought Hanzo into Overwatch in the first place. Besides McCree, he’s perhaps the only other person who has made a repeated effort to lure Hanzo into socializing.

“I did not say that. I doubt our friend Genji wishes solitude on the man. But Hanzo, what happened all those years ago? Being around his brother again? It may have provoked some old feelings.”

Guilt. Guilt is what it provoked, McCree thinks. Well deserved guilt, but guilt Genji hadn’t wished on his brother in years.

“Well, shit,” McCree says, because guilt is a harder beast to fight. It’s not like he can tell Hanzo to get over it. Near-fratricide is a big sin to leave behind.

“I say you stay out of it.” Reinhardt takes another sip of his drink. “I’m for helping the man as much as you are, but I know when something is not my business to touch.”

McCree wants to follow his advice. Truly. He knows the importance of letting things lie. But waiting on those two brothers to talk it out properly? Well, McCree knows better than to wait on miracles. If those two are going to talk, they need a nudge in the right direction.

Or a gentle kick from one of his boots.

He does it during practice, because it seems as good as a time as any. In the morning he makes tea, tea he hasn’t made since Blackwatch. He has to go out to the store to buy the brand–miles from where they’re stationed. He brews it just like he used to. Back when he was in Blackwatch he refused to drink it, which in retrospect was a fool’s errand considering how the stuff has grown on him now. By the time Hanzo meets him in the practice room, he has a cup ready for him on one of the tables.

“You made tea?”

“Yeah,” McCree says. He’s cleaning his revolver. “Thought you might want some instead of having to make your own.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“It’s no problem. Didn’t take much time.”

“That does not mean it was not kind.” There’s a silence as Hanzo sips the tea and McCree takes the pause after as a sign he brewed it right. “Where did you get this?”

“The store,” McCree looks up at him and shrugs. “It’s off the shelf stuff, but I added some extras.”

Hanzo looks to be deciding what emotion he wants on his face. He settles on confused. “These are specific extras.”

“Well, they’re back from my time in Blackwatch.” McCree puts his revolver back in his holster, now shined to perfection. “Genji used to make it sometimes, when he got homesick. Eventually, I learned how to make it myself, just to charm him out of a bad mood. Which was frankly a lifesaver; that man had funks that could depress Lena outright.”

Hanzo is still staring at him. “McCree,” he says at last. “I was under the impression my brother hates drinking this brand of tea.”

“Oh, he does. But he said the smell reminded him of home.”

Hanzo’s eyes grow wide, then narrow.

“If this is some jest-”

McCree holds up his hands. “Ain’t a joke. Not about this.” He gets up off the bench, stretching a little. “Look, I know it isn’t right to meddle in another man’s business, but I thought you might want to know.” He walks towards the door–no practice is happening after this information–and looks over his shoulder at Hanzo. He looks torn between anger and shock. “I never had siblings. But I figure, if I did? And one came back wanting to make up? Might be worth thinking about.”

Hanzo is quiet for a long moment. His shoulders are shaking. McCree is somewhat concerned Hanzo may punch him. Hanzo closes his eyes.

“There is no forgiveness for what I have done.”

“Ain’t your choice, partner. It’s his. And trust me, he gave it to you a long time ago.” And with that, McCree leaves.

He never finds out exactly what Hanzo does after their conversation. But he knows Hanzo comes to dinner with them two days later, instead of eating along in his room. He knows Genji and he talk in the gardens sometimes, when it’s dusk. He knows he did something.

He hopes it’s the right thing.

(The next practice, when he comes into the training room to find a steaming cup of coffee waiting for him, he’s pretty sure he made the right call.)

* * *

Four months later and McCree is positive Hanzo Shimada no longer hates him.

They go out for drinks. Hang out at the bar. Hanzo can be found with the rest of the newly formed Overwatch off duty, talking to Lena about her accelerator, or Lucio about his music. The man, once huddled away in his own self-loathing, is now a part of their unit proper. He smiles more often. When he unleashes his dragons across a battlefield, still ever so beautiful, McCree relishes seeing him grin.

One day where they’re on the battlefield, McCree realizes why. He’s stopped being afraid of the dragons now, but he still keeps his distance when he sees them deployed, afraid of getting sindged. He watches as the dragons spiral out through the street, twisting in on each other, and in a moment, McCree realizes he has stopped paying attention to them when they appear. He no longer focuses on the sweep of their tails, or the roar, slow like a song. No, he focuses on Hanzo. Hanzo, grinning ear to ear. Hanzo’s arm pulling back his bowstring for another shot. Hanzo’s hair swaying in the wind and–

“Shit,” McCree says right there after shooting two guys down. “Shit, shit, fuck, shit, fuck.” He’s screwed. So screwed. Majestically fucked. His brain clearly hates him.

There is a clear category of people who are in Jesse McCree’s league and people who are not in Jesse McCree’s league. Hanzo is in neither in those categories. Because Hanzo Shimada is so out of Jesse McCree’s league that he’s not even included in the chart of consideration.

McCree feels like he needs a drink. Or six. Or the stuff Torbjörn brews in the boiler rooms that he thinks no one knows about.

“McCree,” Hanzo shouts and there’s an arrow going right past McCree’s ear and impaling itself in a Talon agent trying to sneak up on him. The man falls to the ground, dead. A second later, Hanzo is there, Lucio on his tail, a stern expression on  his face.

“Be more alert,” he says. “I would not want to lose a training partner.” With that, he takes off, leaping over one of the nearby walls. McCree just gapes.

“What’s his problem?” Hana says behind him. Lucio laughs, clutching his belly.

“Hormones.”

McCree only feels slightly vindicated when he throws his hat into Lucio’s face.

* * *

McCree ignores it. Ignores the fluttering in his stomach he gets when Hanzo is nearby. Ignores feelings, because feelings are complicated. Hanzo is a friend. A good friend. One of the best friends McCree has had in years. Which means he’s not going to fuck it up over a stupid crush.

Though crush might be an understatement, since McCree still finds the man terribly endearing even after he’s spent the last hour puking into McCree’s toilet.

“Leave me,” Hanzo says as McCree helps him back to his room. McCree doesn’t need Angela to tell him what’s wrong with the man; the flu has been going around. He was almost sure he and Hanzo  would miss the virus until Hanzo started turning green over a round of cards.

“It’s the flu. No need to get all self-sacrificial.” They must look a sight, Hanzo’s arm over McCree’s shoulder, McCree’s hat put away.

“I will get you sick.”

“Okay, so it’s alright if I just leave you right here in the hallway then?” McCree rolls his eyes. “Yeah right. You’re getting walked back. Suck it up.”

“But–”

“If I haven’t gotten the flu from hanging out with you yet, I won’t now. Now relax and let me help you out.”

Hanzo doesn’t say a word until McCree gets him into his room and on his bed. Hanzo’s place is neat, unlike McCree’s, and it only takes a few minute for the cowboy to find a towel for the floor, and a basin in case Hanzo can’t make it to the bathroom later on.

“I’ll give Angela a call. She’ll probably want to check on you, but–” McCree says, before he notices Hanzo passed out right on top of the covers, shivering. He takes a moment to consider moving the man, but he’s averse to risk waking him up. So instead he takes off his favorite red serapa and throws it on Hanzo instead.

“Better not puke on it,” McCree says, considering how far gone he is over this archer. “Warmest one I own.” He leaves for the door. “Feel better, okay? Shooting targets is less fun alone.”

He is alone for a few days. On the third, he wakes up to find his serapa freshly laundered in front of his door. When he goes into their practice the next day, Hanzo seems stilted but doesn’t mention it.

When they shoot at the targets, they miss their bullseye on one target each.

* * *

Six months after he sees the dragons for the first time–six months of target practice, and tea, and praying to God that he’s not fooling himself here–an operation goes south.

No, south is an understatement. The operation goes nuclear.

McCree can’t even pinpoint where it goes wrong, that’s how fast everything manages to get utterly fucked. At one moment, they’re taking the payload as planned. At the next, Reinhardt is being dragged away by Winston, bleeding fast, Tracer has vanished, her accelerator fractured, and 76 is screaming retreat so loud that McCree has to almost mute the com.

McCree isn’t really paying attention to all of that, to be honest. He’s too busy helping Genji get the fuck out of dodge. Genji, whose right leg is sparking something fierce. Right in tandem with McCree’s now very broken, robotic arm.

“You know,” McCree says, because even with them staggering away from God knows how many men behind them, he feels the need to lighten the mood. “I’m pretty sure my priorities are in the wrong order. Cus right now, I’m damn tempted to make a joke about being down an arm and a leg.”

Genji doesn’t even bother to grumble at him, which tells McCree that they’re damn well screwed. By the time they get halfway to the recovery point, Genji’s other leg has started sparking, and McCree is pretty sure carrying him with one arm might be a little difficult. A shot rings out in the distance–they’re gaining–and while Mercy is a welcome sight, only Angela is a less than ideal outcome.

Mercy’s wings are strong, but they aren’t meant to carry more than one person. He knows; he helped test it back in the day. And given the sound of footfalls in the distance, Angela won’t have time to make a round trip to save both of their asses.

McCree takes one look at Angela and pushes Genji into her arms.

“Take him and run,” McCree says and the joking tone that always runs in his voice is gone now, replaced by steel–the Blackwatch member, the soldier, the protector. “You can get me next.” He watches as Angela’s face morphs into sorrow; she’s no fool. She knows what he’s truly asking with this. And so does Genji.

“No. There’s not enough–” He cuts off, and McCree is pretty sure if he lifted Genji’s faceplate, the man would be snarling at him. “You are not allowed to do this. You go. Leave me.”

“Yeah, right.” McCree looks to Angela. “Look, I can run. I’m good at running. Mr. Self Sacrifice here, on the other hand–” He shrugs. The enemy is getting closer, he can hear them. “I’ll out run em’ Angela. You take Genji and go. I’ll meet you guys before you know it.”

Neither of them buy it, McCree can tell. Angela has been in this game too long; Genji knows McCree’s bluffs by heart. They know how this will end.

That doesn’t stop Angela from taking off, wings flapping, as Genji tries to pry himself out of her grip.

Which leaves McCree. Alone. With six shots, ten men on his tail, and no way to outrun them.

He tries anyway. Sprints as fast as his legs can take him, even though he’s out of breath and tired to the bone. A few bullets pass him, grazing his torso, and he hisses. Blood loss is never good. He makes it around two blocks before he’s sure he won’t be able to outrun them. They’re too fast, and when the realization hits him, he staggers in place.

He’s going to die here. He’s going to die here, to Talon, and Talon doesn’t leave bodies behind. They’re going to find nothing but his hat in a pool of blood, the kids are gonna find nothing but his hat in a pool of blood, shit, they’ll have nothing to bury but that same bloodstained hat and–

McCree takes a deep breath. Panic comes easy, but he can’t afford it now. Instead, he turns on his heel. Clenches his revolver.

 _A cowboy’s gotta die facing death in the eye._ That’s what the gang always told him. For the first time in years, McCree finds their advice sound. He tilts his hat down to hide any fear on his face as they get closer. Lifts Peacemaker. His hand doesn’t shake.

He hopes the others are okay. He hopes Genji doesn’t blame himself. He hopes D.Va doesn’t cry. He hopes Lena works up the bluster to tell a joke at his funeral.

He hopes they give Hanzo his favorite red Serapa.

“Sorry, Hanzo,” McCree whispers, remembering their earlier conversation from what seems like a lifetime ago. About being careful. “Can’t help the luck of the draw.”

The enemies turn the corner, guns drawn. McCree lifts his revolver, ready to take at least six out, to go down swinging. And then a voice, a call he understands now, a call for dragons that no longer remind him of the stream of his youth but of elegant tattoos, a morning sunrise, and a small smile, hidden in the shadows.

“Ryuu ga waga teki wo kurau!”

McCree does not drop his gun this time. But it’s almost a sure thing as the dragons snarl out of the shadows behind him, going right through; big beautiful, and terrifying.

He’s not quite sure how to describe it, afterwards. It’s not painful–in fact it doesn’t hurt at all–but it feels like there’s a current running through him almost, making him a livewire, his hair standing on end. There’s no roar in his ears, no, no roar at all, but instead blissful silence, the screams of the enemy drowned out. The blue light of the spirits is almost calming. As one of the dragons passes him, he can hear it say something in a language he shouldn’t understand but does anyway.

“You could have died, Jesse McCree. Do not be so foolish to think your friends would recover without you so easily.”

The silence lasts for another moment, long and peaceful. The dragons fade away, and McCree sways on his feet with the the sudden absence of the energy in his body, like he’s been wrung dry. The world swirls. He falls.

“Jesse!”

He does not hit the ground.

If Jesse McCree was more awake at this moment, he’d have a smart comment to give, while being held in Hanzo’s arms. Something about damsels in distress perhaps, or timing, or maybe a good joke that Hanzo actually does know his first name. Instead he looks at the archer. Smiles.

“The dragons,” he says, a slur in his voice. “They didn’t hurt.”

Soon after, he promptly passes out.

* * *

He wakes up in medbay with a repaired arm, healed cuts and one Angela in the corner, fretting as usual.

Her diagnosis is quick, but simple. Exhaustion, a bit of blood loss, nothing too serious to be worried about. When Genji comes by, the usually calm man rips him a new one, ranting about his health, and self sacrifice and “if you ever try this again, Jesse McCree, I will refuse to be removed from your side to keep you from getting yourself killed.”

It’s all rather touching.

“My brother said you felt no pain, from the dragons,” Genji says, when he’s made it painfully clear how McCree is never allowed to do this again.

“Nope.” He pauses, considering keeping this information to himself before spilling the beans. “One of them spoke to me, actually. They supposed to do that?”

Genji is quiet for a long moment.

“I believe,” he says, voice soft. “That is a question better left for my brother.”

* * *

He finds Hanzo in the training room, no bows or arrows in sight.

“You’re awake,” he says as McCree enters, a little limp in his step from where one of the bullets grazed him. McCree tries to pull on his widest smile.

“Right as rain.” Hanzo raises an eyebrow. Right, idioms. “It means I’m fine.”

“You almost were not.”

“And thanks to you, I was.” McCree leans against one of the walls. “Nice save, by the way. Thought I was a goner.”

The silence is painful.

“You know,” McCree says at last. “One of your dragons. It spoke to me.”

Hanzo does not look surprised like McCree expects. “What did it say?”

McCree smiles. “Quite a bit. But the short version? Stop being an idiot.”

The tension breaks, Like the damn breaking on that creek McCree used to watch as a child. Hanzo gets off his bench. Walks over to McCree. Stares him right in the eye and he pokes him right in the chest.

“You could have died, Jesse McCree. Do not be so foolish to think your friends would recover without you so easily.” He cuts off, then takes a deep breath. “That I–”

Jesse McCree is an ex-con, a member of Overwatch, and a wonderful shot. He’s full of bad jokes, he keeps his room a right mess, and he never knows when to quit. But he’s no fool. He can take a hint.

Given the way Hanzo responds to the kiss McCree pulls him into, McCree took the right one.

* * *

It is a year after McCree first saw the dragons and Hanzo Shimada certainly does not hate his guts. In fact evidence suggests, Hanzo is  rather fond of them.

The dragons echo through the square they’re defending. McCree watches, smile wide, as they dance.

Behind the dragons, Hanzo smiles back at him. 

**Author's Note:**

> hohluke made some amazing fanart for this on Tumblr! I may have yelled. You can find it here: 
> 
> http://hohluke.tumblr.com/post/147415812543/you-could-have-died-jesse-mccree-do-not-be-so
> 
> I also got some fantastic fanart from nickutried on Tumblr as well. Look at it and shower it with love here:
> 
> http://nickutried.tumblr.com/post/149089608282/a-scene-from-this-fanfic-i-thought-was-pretty


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